Chronos Platoon
by Sentrovasi
Summary: It's a play on the name, ne? But it's a story in itself. One of the mysteries of a forgotten era, the innocence of a time long past, and a future which only the most intrepid of adventurers might dare explore. Rated T for Idon'tknowwhat. But it is.
1. A Brittle Longing

**Chapter 1 – A Brittle Longing**

_Slam._

The door slammed shut. The silence following it was almost palpable; the many layers of dust which coated the room, disturbed, made faint sounds which only seemed to accentuate the silence. The empty room gave the impression of being entirely forgotten: you'd have thought that had the room self-consciousness, the only thing keeping it on this plane would be its constant reminder to itself: "I am a room."

One could almost believe that the room didn't exist. Not on this time plane; not on this world thread. And, truth be told, they'd be half-right.

The dust settled. The door was closed, now, the room sealed once more. Deliberately he placed his hand against a wall, concentrating. The door shimmered and disappeared.

Just another illusion. He had never entered, after all. Time had no meaning, and space thus no existence.

Which was just how he liked it.

He let his hand fall to his side; he sighed: perhaps the first real sound to have graced the room… or the room which wasn't a room. Turning toward the center of the room, he reached beneath the dark cape he wore and removed a small wand; black and gold. He waved the MagicCodar around twice, savoring its feel. He hadn't been able to use his skills in quite a while; after all, Magic Suppression Fields rendered his abilities useless.

Now, though, in a world free of the boundaries set by its thread, he was free to exercise his suppressed powers. Drawing a circle in the air, he watched as a trail of purple fire followed: his eyes followed the flickering of the flames as the space within the circle of fire began to warp. A faint gasp escaped his lips as he watched the swirling colours.

Now it would begin.

* * *

I never know what to expect from one of _her_ training courses: that they rarely involve any form of conventional training at all is the only constant. It isn't that I mind not having to kill a thousand slimes a day or massacre a forest of mushrooms, but there _is_ a limit to… 

"Right. For today, you're on cleaning duty!"

I sigh. What else can I do? She _is_ my superior, after all. The chief has specifically put her in charge of me, even though she definitely doesn't look much older than I am. While he's specifically said that she can only give me orders as are related to my training, she seems, instead, to treat me as though I'm her personal errand-boy.

Well. At least mopping floors and wiping windows are somewhat more normal than tying ribbons on pigs or demanding snail shells from young adventurers as tax. The latter resulted in both of us getting scolded… rather; she somehow managed to pin the blame on me. I still have no idea what she's done with the few hundred shells I collected.

Shrugging, I accept my assignation with just the barest hint of enthusiasm. Obviously not enough for her.

"Come on! It's not like I'm forcing you to mash Slimes into squishy liquids with your bare hands…!"

… Considering I did that last week, and never want to think about it again, she really knows how to put things in perspective.

"I'll bet lots of people out there would love to be in your shoes now!"

… Yeah; let me count them. One—nope: that's me. Sometimes I'm not sure she knows what she's talking about.

Of course, living in a military system the way we do means there isn't much I can do but bow my head and obey. I'm not even sure why she's getting me to do this anyway: cleaning isn't her duty, after all. As far as I know, the trainers here have only one job—not that she does hers at all.

I twist the cold metal handle of the storeroom door, letting it swing open soundlessly. The mop and bucket seem to call to me: soundlessly, no doubt, in a tone of infinite mocking. I look about myself, unsure of what else to take with me: the chilling, stale air with permeates the dank room reminds me I've no wish to be here. I grab a few of the rags which hang against a wall and run back to meet her: she condemns lateness—_my_ lateness, anyway.

For once, she looks satisfied. It's still hard to believe that she's actually a trainer. She's hardly older than I am, and more immature. She points to the dining hall as I approach, the smile on her face mischievous. I do my best to look miserable: it's not very hard. But she doesn't even seem to feel remotely guilty. For a moment I almost _wish_ I was among the other trainees, with a sword in one hand and shield in the other: shouldn't there be _someone_ to do these chores? Other than me; anyway.

I push the door open, knowing that the only greeting I'll get is the squeaking of the door hinges and the musty air of a room disused. When it's time for people to eat, the room will be bursting with life, with hungry warriors of all ranks tucking into their daily meals. Right now, though, it's empty. As empty as my head's feeling at the moment, probably.

She follows behind me as I step into the room. She's humming a tune under her breath, and while I don't generally mind it, I _do_ wish she'd seem a little less nonchalant. I don't even _think_ I'm meant to be doing this. Some of the trainees seem to think being under a girl my age than an aging instructor is a pretty good deal, but at least _they_ get to fight: I doubt I've learnt a quarter of the things they have.

This can hardly be a warrior's purpose.

The water gurgles merrily as it pours from the tap into the bucket. The cool sensation as it laps against my hand is pleasant; given the current weather conditions, anyway. In the cold months, even Fire Boars are forced to hibernate. The Red Drakes remain, of course, but they've always been a pain, anyway.

I dip the mop into the bucket, waiting until it's a substantial weight in my hands before lifting it from the water and onto the floor. Swabbing, it's called. The mop squelches obligingly in my hands, splashing water to the left and right. She nimbly leaps atop a table and watches as I work, her legs dangling off its side.

She never _does_ like to help. I progress slowly, the silence of the room and the boredom of the task almost more than I can bear. Faintly, the sounds of swords clashing can be heard outside, and I long to join them. But all I have is my trainer and her intermittent humming. My only consolation is the fact that cleaning rooms is at least normal, if entirely mundane.

The sunlight streams through the windows, filling the room with a heat which does little to improve the situation. I pause, and for a moment I consider the mop in my hands. Then, with a furtive glance at her, I raise the mop in the air, swinging it; relishing the feel of a pseudo-spear in my hands…

"Hey. That's not part of your training for today, is it?"

Her chastising seems at least partly out of amusement, and also a little annoyance: possibly because some of the water flung off the mop had narrowly missed her.

Reluctantly, I set the mop down, biting my lip before I say anything. She never _does_ get angry about anything I say against her training regimens, but I don't feel comfortable correcting her, despite all the doubts I have. It might also be because of the unusual penalties she imposes whenever I step out of line.

I make a face: I don't actually realize I've done anything of the sort until she returns it a moment later; an act of childishness which I've become entirely accustomed to. That's one reason why she seems to be younger than I am, I guess, but you wouldn't know that from her accomplishments: trainers were usually _much_ older than she was.

"Come on, get to it!" she motions somewhat impatiently as I snap out of my momentary trance, "we've got to get some work done before it's time for lunch!"

If she's so anxious to get this place cleaned up, then why doesn't she do some work herself?

And it's not like the dining hall is very dirty, either. The windows are clear, and the tables are clean enough for her to be lying down on one of them. Someone's obviously been doing his work… possibly another hapless trainee like me: or, more likely, the person actually responsible for cleanliness around here.

I'm done with the floor and halfway through the tables and countertops when she finally gets me to stop. She doesn't actually say anything, just gets off the table and nods, as though satisfied, before turning to me.

"I think we've done enough work for today."

_We?_ She hardly lifted a finger at all. But it's an inaccuracy I've learnt to live with, if only because it's just how the cookie crumbles. I've never been one to complain; outwardly, anyway. I dry off the tables before following her outside. I'm surprised at the sudden change, though: cleaning a huge hall for the better part of three hours and then just stopping doesn't sound at all like what she'd do. Maybe it's the fact that lunch is soon to be served. Still, things like that have never stopped her before.

I deposit the cleaning materials in the storeroom before walking back to her. She's waiting atop the large plateau just behind the hall: it's not normally used for anything at all, so it's no surprise to see it empty.

"Why didn't I have to finish the job, then?" I asked. She was young enough not to treat it as impertinence when I ask her a question, although she sometimes ignores me anyway. This time, though, she replies, if a tad nonchalantly.

"I changed my mind. It was getting boring…"

Yeah; getting boring just lying there while I do all the work… then again, if she stops when she gets bored, then what _exactly_ does she make me do these trainings for?

She sighs. She seems to be thinking of something: she looks about herself for a moment, and then turns to me again.

"Let's begin, then," her cheerful voice seems to clash with the way she's looking at me. It isn't mischievous: well; maybe a little, but that's not it. It's a little resigned, a little determined, and maybe just a little _deadly_.

Begin…? I ask the question, unsure and uncertain of the answer: or even that I want to hear it.

She's smiling now, and it's a wan one that makes me feel more than a little confused: if I wasn't before, I am now.

"Oh, come on…" she raises her arm as she speaks, and then I notice the sword she has in her hand. "Combat training."

I pause as I notice the second sword on the ground behind her. How I didn't notice it before, I can't really say. I expect I wasn't paying enough attention. I am now, though. Not that I can still believe what she's saying.

Wait. Combat training? She means it?

She gives me a patient glance, and then tosses the sword over. I flinch as it hurtles towards me, and then I realize it's just a wooden sword. Heavy, but I dodge out of the way without any problems. I catch the sword neatly about the hilt—no problem, really: not after the flies she had me catch the last time—and then point the tip back to her.

I've used swords before, of course: before the trainers, we're given a course on basic weapon mastery. Not that my trainer's ever gone anywhere beyond that. This wooden sword feels a little lighter than the simple swords and axes we've used before, but it handles well: it's definitely better crafted, even if the material is questionable.

But she's already drawn her own wooden sword from the sheath she has strapped about her waist. Another wooden sword: not that I can expect her to draw anything more lethal. She nods at me, as though asking me to make my approach. Is it a ruse?

I hesitate. She's waiting. She nods again. My move, then: but it's obvious that her movements are but a ruse.

With a resigned sigh, I rush forward at her. As I approach, I slash down sharply, bringing my weapon across her—

_Thwack_

She stops my attack with surprising ease: not that I'd have expected anything less. Yet her slender body implies nothing of the strength she holds within her: it's like ramming the weapon into a brick wall. My attack was halted. The wooden sword she used to parry my attack wasn't even shaken.

_Thump_

She gives an apologetic smile as she easily knocks the blade out of my hands with the hilt of her own: I barely have time to think before my weapon is on the ground, five feet away from me. It doesn't seem like she's done anything at all: the whole movement was fluid enough that I barely notice anything until she's done.

She hits me lightly on the head with the flat of her blade before shrugging.

"Now that you've learnt that a mad rush doesn't work…" the smile on her face seems to be one of amusement now, "let's try a different approach."

The fact that she's actually _teaching_ me to use a sword overrides any resentment I might have about how she's laughing at my inexperience. Most of the time, it seems like she's just treating my training as a past-time for her amusement. While I can't deny that it hasn't ever been dull for the most part, it was never actually _teaching_ me anything.

I recover my sword as she waves her own blade at me again. She has her sword down: an invitation for a frontal attack. This time, though, I try a low sweep out and into her left. As I run towards her, I keep my body balanced, feinting at the last moment and crouching low while I bring my arm across my chest to strike.

She parries the blow again: despite the fact that I've struck the foible of her blade with the forte of my own (although, to be fair, the sword has no definite weaker or stronger point), her guard shows no signs of weakening: her wrist is locked and firm as she breaks away from the engagement: she springs away, leaving barely a moment's opening: too short a space of time for me to use at all.

And then, even as I try to stand, I feel the flat of her weapon on my head again. She smiles again as she turns: her hair fans out behind her as she moves to a position a distance from me again.

"Your approaches are too predictable," she sounds almost sorry about it: almost. I shake my head in irritation: it's not _my_ fault I don't know anything, is it?

She seems to realize that the demonstrations of my failure aren't helping. She puts a finger to her chin as she thinks for a moment, before finally coming to a decision.

"Look, I'll attack you, and you try and block the attack. How does _that_ sound?"

If she's expecting me to be excited by that, she's going to be sorely disappointed. Another display of how bad I am. Excellent. I sometimes wonder if she's really thinking when she does that pose. Maybe she's just looking cute… but that's a different thing altogether.

Shrugging, I guard, watching as she makes her approach. Her movements are fluid: something you don't automatically realize when the person in question's the one asking you to do a host of menial labours each and every day. That said, it's hard to ignore the grace and speed with which she's moving… even if that's only to your disadvantage. Especially in a scenario such as this.

She catches me off-guard: despite my anticipating her approach, she somehow manages to break her rhythm on her last step: she falters for a half-second while I attempt to riposte her non-existent attack. As my blade sweeps over her head, she ducks under it, bringing the forte of her own against mine and knocking it aside once again. She gets to her feet and for a moment her body is just an inch from mine. I scarcely dare to breathe.

_Thwack_

And then she hits me on the head with her weapon again. Her skill with the weapon is amazing. If I'd tried to do that, I would've impaled her first. I sigh again. I don't see how any of this is helping my swordplay, let alone my self-esteem. She gives me a perplexed look. It might also be a look of withering impatience, but I hardly feel she has any right to feel that way. Nevertheless, I scratch my head sheepishly and confess my inexperience. Not that it was ever in any doubt.

Of course, that doesn't make any difference at all. There is a mock-frown on her face as she turns to face me again.

"You haven't learnt much, have you?"

I raise my hands in mute surrender as she points the blade impatiently at me. She shakes her head, and I've little recourse but to pick it up again.

I don't put it down for another two hours.

Somewhere in the distance, the lunch bell tolls.

**A/N: It's done! Kinda. I'll leave the plot of this story a secret for now, but it's more than a slice-of-life story about a trainee warrior and his overbearing female trainer. The opening should be enough to remind you of that. I hope you find it interesting, though. To be honest, I started writing this four months or so ago… but got bored. And only rediscovered it the day before yesterday, and decided to finish it.**

**Whether or not you liked it or hated it… well; I wouldn't know unless you reviewed, would I?**


	2. Effort and Effect

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Maplestory. I wish I did, because I'd be really raking it in, but I don't. I don't actually own the word _arte_, either. I tried adapting some Latin, since it's usually good for things like this. Most of the other terms I've made up because they're convenient.**  
**

**Chapter 2 – Effort and Effect**

"Two hours?" I hear you say, "That doesn't seem like a very long time." I bet you practice twice that amount with your spear just before lunch, and then twice that amount again after a short rest break. Well, _you_ don't have my worries. Namely, a hyperactive and somewhat-psychotic trainer who gets bored with anything she does remarkably fast. Like swordplay, for instance. A short moment later, she'd replaced the swords with spears, and then with axes. And now she's making me practice fighting with a shield.

_A shield._

I must admit, the novelty had escaped me until the moment she managed to somehow land a blow just below my ribs. It wasn't especially damaging, but was still landed with enough force to send me flying back a couple of feet. Shields aren't meant to be used with such dexterity: I'm almost sure of it. But there's a kind of thrill you get when you're using an unfamiliar weapon in an unfamiliar way, and you've no idea which way the battle will go.

I bring the wooden buckler up just in time as she swings her own shield into me: despite the wooden cushion between my arm and her attack, I stagger a step back, shaken by the impact. Almost immediately she's come in for another attack: even my heightened reflexes aren't enough to save me from the unexpected follow-up. I fall back onto the ground as I raise my shield above my head: in the instant the shield comes swinging down, I kick out instinctively.

She gasps as the wind is knocked out of her: I can feel the solid mass pressing against the boots I wear as I push back against her. Somehow—amazingly—I've managed to counter her attack. It does little more than force her back a step or two: she recovers with incredible speed. But that's still better than I've fared much of the day. As much as I'd hate to admit it.

"That's… the third time you've managed to repel my attack, isn't it?" She sighs in mock frustration as she removes her shield.

Does she mean that as a compliment or an insult? I nod my head in acknowledgement anyway, getting to my feet slowly as I unstrap my own buckler from my arm. Wearily, I stumble over to the two buckets of water I'd previously gathered: since we'd skipped lunch, she'd made me get some rations and water from the stores to eat while we practiced. Although I doubt I've gotten any better in all that practice. It hasn't been much more than me losing over and over again: no matter what I try, she's there to counter it.

I flop down beside the buckets and take a long draught from one of them: the light white shirt I'm wearing is already soaked with perspiration… well; actually, it's hard to see why it wouldn't be—not after the prolonged hours of supposed training.

She sits down beside me after pooling the weapons into a small heap. Their worn surfaces clank against each other in the sunlight, which is beginning to fade even now.

Despite the exertions of the day, she seems immaculate as she sits down beside me. Barely a hair out of place as she re-adjusts the beret she wears on her head. I feel a little resentment for that, but I can't grudge her my admiration, either: her abilities are beyond anything I've seen in a fighter her age. _My_ age. She hasn't even broken into a sweat, I notice. Probably the reason she's a trainer, and I'm still a trainee.

She pours the remainder of the bucket over her head before turning to look at me. I look away quickly, if only to avoid an awkward scenario. But she doesn't seem to care in the least. She stands again: I notice her hair is dripping wet. A silly observation, I know, but it's the one thing I notice in the light of the setting sun. It glistens.

She sifts through the stack of weapons and removes the wooden sword from it again. I easily catch the toss, wearily looking at the sword. I can't help but wonder why she's still trying to train me. It's nearly time for dinner, anyway.

"We've half an hour. That's enough time."

I can't really do much else but stand – again. Despite my apprehension, I guard, before realizing that she's still unarmed. She shakes her head in response to my unasked question.

"I'm bored of that, too," she says nonchalantly. Taken her long enough, anyway; I doubt either of us feels terribly excited at the prospect of another one-sided battle.

Instead, she moves to stand beside me. Immediately, I begin to feel nervous: _more_ nervous, admittedly. Perhaps it's my lack of self-confidence that needs boosting than my weapon mastery. Then again, I don't think that's something she can help me with at the moment.

"Now that you've gotten a little better," she begins—to be honest, I'm not very sure how she's gotten that impression at all—"I guess I can teach you some basic artes now."

It takes a full second for me to register the words she's spoken. In essence, she's just attempted to cram three month's worth of training into a single day. I'm not sure _exactly_ what artes are, but the other trainees are only just beginning. It's as though she's trying to catch up to the others after all the time she's spent on random irrelevant antics.

Not that I've anything against it, but still…

"Don't worry: you'll do fine!" she says reassuringly. It is only a moment later she's forced to correct herself.

"MP! Haven't you heard of MP?" She doesn't quite shout it, but she seems quite incredulous.

Perhaps I'd be able to know it a little better if she'd stop referring to it as MP and tell me _just_ what it stands for.

At this, she puts a finger to her chin again in her trademark thinking pose. Her voice comes out tentative.

"Magic Points?"

I don't have any magic ability I know of. The points will be rather redundant, even if I know what they stand for.

"Mystic Power?"

Now; that reminds me of one of those strange RPGs. Although for some reason, the thought of role-playing games has me feeling a little strange. Like there's some kind of paradox playing in the background.

"Miracle Potential?"

Doesn't work. No matter what she suggests as its name, it doesn't do more than confuse me or make me feel like laughing. The next few she tries don't seem to be any better at all: it is a fact I find somewhat interesting. She scratches her head a moment, before pouting.

"It doesn't matter. It's… well; it's necessary for you to use artes; that's enough for you to know."

A dubious enough explanation, I guess. I wonder where I'd be able to find MP. A question which earns me another smack on the head: with her hand, this time.

"It's not something you _find_…" she looks about herself a moment. "It's in every person in the world: you've just got to learn to manipulate it."

Not an easy thing to do when I've never even noticed its existence before. But she's inexorable at this point. At her behest, I swing the sword in a forward slash.

She frowns a little, skipping from foot to foot as I continuously perform a series of forward slashes. After a while, she stops me.

"Don't you feel anything yet?"

Tired? Yes. But if I'm meant to feel some strange magical power, then she's deluding herself. I swing a few more times for effect, but I don't really feel anything in it at all.

"Oh; for heaven's sake…"

She steps behind me and takes my sword in her hand: her grip is firm, even though her hand is smaller than my own. I have a moment to stare blankly at her hand over mine before she swings.

"Nuuooo!"

Her shouting in my ear is the last thing on my mind, though: I gasp as I feel the muscles in my arm instinctively contract even as she pulls the blade downwards in an incredibly powerful slash. She quite literally drags my arm for the first eighth of a second before I manage to catch up with her.

But this feeling: it's like nothing I've felt before – it's something stronger; a strange source of strength which flows through the both of us: guiding, like something half-familiar and yet entirely foreign… I don't think I'm good with descriptions.

The slash seems to cut the air itself: the space in front of us shimmers, and as the blade follows its graceful arc, the energy which courses through the sword seems to wrap itself about the it: it is only as the slash concludes that I sense the sudden _rush_: a rush I would later learn to term a release.

If not for her body behind my own, I'd have stumbled and fallen back: the blast of energy was tremendous. A flash of red light, and then a shallow crater is blasted in the ground in front of me. A shower of fine dust is thrown up, but I blink it away and continue staring at the sight before me.

And then I realize she's still supporting me. It's a little embarrassing, but the realization brings about a different knowledge: _this_ is the power of an arte. Of course, it's not my power, but hers. I can't know to feel awed or disappointed by this fact.

Still, she's offering to teach it to me.

"So, got a feel of what MP's like, now?"

I nod: the rush of energy leaves a heady sensation in my mind, even if I didn't actually perform the arte myself. I stare at my hands for a brief spell, willing the energy to re-emerge. Nothing. I guess I can't expect too much: to have experienced that strength at all…

"_That_ arte is known as a Slash Blast," she uncannily answers my unspoken question, "and now that you know how it feels, maybe you'll be able to summon it as well." She pauses and seems to appraise me. "Maybe."

For the umpteenth time, it's _her_ fault I'm not competent: it's not mine. I open my mouth to say so, but I don't. Instead, she sweeps the blade out of my hands before I can utter a word.

"That's enough for today, anyway," she mutters, more to herself than me. "We'll start actual training tomorrow…"

Despite my indignation, I can't help but feel a sense of freedom. For once, I might actually be able to train like a warrior! The thought is delicious in my mind, even when she utters the inevitable:

"… Only _after_ you've done your other chores, of course…"

I've little doubt what those chores entail, but if her words and emotions are anything to go by…

She's just found her new pastime.

* * *

They're surprised when I tell them that my training's beginning. I don't think they were expecting this for another half a year at least. She's notorious that way. Sometimes I wonder how she can still be a trainer with a reputation like that. The chief doesn't seem to care, anyway. Maybe he's becoming senile. 

But I banish the thoughts from my head and return to my dinner. After the grueling practice, my stomach is just begging to be filled. Although… perhaps _grueling_ isn't quite the word to use: I still remember that one time she made me head up into the west rocky mountains to—

"What's she taught you, then?"

I frown a moment; I'm not quite sure myself. I've basic knowledge of how to fight with most types of melee weapons now, I guess. Swords, spears, axes, polearms, maces, shields…

"… Shields?"

Shields. I'm not remarkably proficient in any one of them, though, which is something of a problem when your peers are all already beginning to specialize.

There's a little bit more probing, and a few comments about my trainer's general sanity are passed, but then the topic shifts towards other things: no one really likes talking about work all that much. I pick at the side of boar in front of me as the conversation drifts about me. I don't really care for it today. Maybe I'm just tired.

But eventually the shifting tides of endless chatter draw me in again: for some reason, they've begun talking about artes. Despite the fact that I've little hope at all of mustering enough power to perform a single one, I can't help but listen in.

"Managed to perform a decent Powered Strike today: tore the dummy clean in two before I knew it," is one excited murmur.

"Got through three consecutive 'Strikes today without too much trouble," the second recounts offhandedly.

"And quaffed one of those Blue Potions before you lost consciousness, no?" a third guffaws. The other one flushes uncomfortably as the conversation drifts on.

It seems like the Powered Strike, or Power Slash as some of the others call it, is the one basic arte within our reach at this point. I say _we_, but I don't think I'm included in the conversation at all. There's a moment when one of them asks if I know to perform any artes, but my halting response means little to them: it's a given that I've little to show for my training, or lack thereof.

I can't deny it; it's true. I've gotten used to it, I guess. It means little to me anymore: if I'm labeled 'the warrior with the weird trainer', at least it's not 'the _weird_ warrior with the trainer'. It's occurred to me on occasion that I might be shifting some of my own blame on her, but I try not to think about it too much. It's easier to feel better like that.

I can only imagine how the older trainers must think of her as they dine at their separate quarters.

It is only after the meal is over that a question occurs to me. The others turn their heads expectantly towards me: we're blocking the doorway out of the dining hall, but no one really seems to care. My question is important, after all.

But none of them could tell me what MP stood for, either.

* * *

I return to my tent, a small, one-man affair. There's nothing of value within it at all, but for a few messy bundles of clothes, a lantern and a small knapsack which is, at present, completely empty. I pull off my boots, leaving them beside the woven sheet which is my bed. The warmth of the lantern suffuses the room, and it is easy to succumb to the sleep which my aching body craves. I dim the lantern. 

It is only as I try to lie down that I notice the wooden sword which is laid across my makeshift bed. I sit up almost immediately, checking my back for any cuts I might have sustained. There are none, of course: it'd be rather stupid if there were. Sighing, I put the sword aside and find the note left beneath it. The piece of parchment on which it's written seems to be of boar skin. I strengthen the lantern's flame and hold the parchment close, my tired eyes barely managing to distinguish the words written upon it in the flickering light.

_Rest well tonight: you'll need this for tomorrow! Meet me at the street corner: the fourth hour will do._

I sighed. It's just like her to do this: place an unsigned note in her trainee's tent under a weapon he's not authorized to keep with him. I groan inwardly as I notice the time she's set: to get there by the fourth hour, I'm going to have to wake quite a bit earlier than that. I'll hardly get enough sleep that way.

But there's nothing for it. Her volatile and entirely random nature is something I've learnt to loathe and love over the years. But if she never cuts me any slack, at least one thing's for sure.

I'll never be bored while she's around. I'll probably be too tired, anyway.

The cold morning breeze blows gently through her hair as I approach: even in the darkness of the early morning, I can see her, if only dimly. I look back over my shoulder at the rest of camp: practically everyone else is still asleep, if the silence and darkness is anything to go by.

'Everyone else', including the girl who even now lies slumped against a tree in front of me.

Her eyes are closed, her breathing regular: a faint whisper of breath sounds in tandem to the rising and falling of her chest. For a moment, she seems peaceful: her lips are turned up at the sides: a purely mechanical result, I'm sure, but one which lends her a touch of grace so different from her random and hyper moments.

For a second, I cannot decide if to watch her sleep or wake her: the latter would give me a chance to gloat over how she'd fallen asleep where I hadn't. But the onus of choice is passed from me to her in a second, and she's not known for her indecisiveness.

Her eyes spring open, and for a moment she looks almost embarrassedly at me. But then the moment is past, and she's hit me on the head with the palm of her hand. I wince.

"You're late!" she admonishes: just what I'd expect from her. She doesn't seem to realize that she wasn't _quite_ all there, either.

Of course, it's only my right to point out that she's little proof it's anything past four: the sky is still too dark for any estimation of time to take place. But, then again, it's apparently _her_ right to ignore me entirely. Which she does when she finds it convenient.

The 'street corner' is really little more than a junction which separates our settlement from the wild plains beyond it, plagued by monsters. Most monsters have long learnt to avoid our human settlements: occasionally, bands of drakes may hunker down from the mountains in search of prey, but the many drake skulls we've collected over the years at least prove how effectively we can repel them. On occasion, the bones may be serviceable enough to craft with. Their skins are a useful material, too, for armour creation.

But we never hunt the drakes: not actively, anyway. We know better than to aggravate them, lest we invite _more_ trouble: there've been tales of a gigantic gold drake sleeping at the top of the mountain: as far as anyone knows, it's a myth, but chances are one thing we shouldn't be anxious to take.

Here, though, there are nothing but the few giant snails (pathetic, despite their size, but delicious when cooked properly) and animate stumps. Our people have long learnt to take only what we need from the forest, lest more of these creatures spring forth: the stronger ones are marked by the relics of adventurers left behind: an axe, maybe, or a sword or spear in a rarer specimen. They mightn't be able to use the weapons embedded in their bodies, but they're definitely much more furious for it. Their resistance to weapons also seems to increase.

Green mushrooms also appear periodically, but their thick caps prove more a hindrance than any actual danger.

But to be entirely honest, I'm apprehensive as to what she means to teach me today: I'm hoping it might be an arte, but I don't think I'll even be able to summon the strength to even _try_ performing it. Despite my best efforts, the straining has only caused a crick in my neck: dispelled, thankfully, but still remarkably uncomfortable.

She unsheathes her sword as she beckons for me to follow her: despite the darkness of the morning, it's not difficult to traverse the flat, rocky terrain: we skirt about the enormous columns of rock which rise up at intervals from the ground: they're mostly extensions of the giant mountain our settlement is built within. At points, the plateau we walk upon drops away in a sheer cliff: A consequence of living in a mountain, but not one which any of us are unduly worried about.

I look about myself, unfamiliar with the eerie silence. Most of the monsters seem to be sleeping at this time: perhaps she meant for us to pass unhindered, than engage in combat later. Not that I know this area at all: maybe there're just less monsters here. I doubt it, though.

I find it somewhat incredible how she can nimbly leap from ledge to ledge without missing a beat: I do so with more than a little difficulty, if I do at all: she clears ledges over a metre high in a single jump, while I find myself having to support myself with my hands at points: it's not like she's not wearing any armour, either. Her appearance belies the strength of her person: I can remember my peers and I thinking of her as a cute but harmless trainer to begin with, but any illusions of that had been dispelled. Of course, they'd been dispelled since I'd found her to be a hyperactive, fickle and psychotic character a few months ago, but she'd shown little indication of her physical prowess before now.

I clamber up the sixth successive ledge to find her sitting on the eighth: I'm hardly tired at all, but my speed's no match for her own. Her figure is illuminated in the soft moonlight: her hand is raised as she prepares to throw a rock at me.

I have the better part of a second to wonder why she's doing it before the rock comes hurtling towards me. I curse, ducking as I raise my sword above myself: the projectile bounces harmlessly off its blade, the impact jarring my hand a little.

I look up at her: she's standing now, and there's another rock in her hand.

"You're too slow!" she calls down: there seems to be genuine amusement in her voice as she sends a second projectile flying my way: I barely dodge this second one, rolling to a side a moment before it hits me.

I jump to the seventh ledge, even as she expertly back flips onto the ninth. Two more stones are released in the process: her hand seems to find pebbles from the ground almost the second it touches earth. Impatiently, I slash at the missiles, but miss one: It bounces off my shoulder and stings a little, but I shrug off the minor bruise and jump, just managing to clear the eighth ledge.

"You're going to have to do better than that!" she calls. She's definitely finding this interesting, then, even if I don't think it's very fun at all. I advance to the ninth as she turns and takes to the eleventh: the ledges seem to continue upward in a spiralling manner _ad infinitum_.

I grit my teeth as she playfully calls to me, somehow remaining _just_ out of reach. Out of pure frustration, I whip my blade to the ground, striking a pebble and sending it flying towards her. In the time it takes for my pebble to fly towards her, though, she sends three flying my way: using the momentum of my sword to my advantage, I bring the blade up to my torso to parry the worst of it.

In a single motion, I block two of the pebbles, sidestepping the third and finding purchase on the tenth ledge; using my free arm to aid me in my climb, I manage to vault over it, with some effort. Looking up at her, I notice that my attack's missed: with characteristic agility, she's ascended another two ledges. Nonetheless, I follow, sweeping the ground with my sword as I do and sending another two pebbles flying towards her.

In a flash, she's brought her sword out in front of her: despite myself, I cannot but watch as a red aura surrounds her weapon: an incandescent glow which stands out in the dark sky. Then she brings the weapon slashing down.

The energy seems to leap from her blade: the air ripples about us as the Slash Blast shatters the projectiles. She sticks her tongue out mischievously before she turns, disappearing behind the thirteenth ledge as I make my way up the tenth.

When I finally make it to the thirteenth ledge, I see that it opens out into an area of flat land: the mountains are known for their flat plateaus, which make ideal training grounds… as well as a sprawling habitat for the monsters which abound in this region. The night still hangs heavy in the sky, although day is very nearly upon us: there's a faint tinge of blue in the dark veil above.

A plethora of different trails lead off from the plateau itself, their presence demarcating the boundaries of the open space I notice her lying in the centre of. Her chestnut-coloured hair must be getting dirty, but she hardly seems to notice. Her beret has fallen off her head: evidently, it isn't glued on, and succumbs to gravity at the best of times. She doesn't seem to care for that either.

What she _does_ seem to be is contented: there's a smile on her face unlike most of the others I've seen from her. Her eyes are closed as she lies, face-up, smiling at the empty sky. I'm beginning to think she's asleep, but then she starts to giggle. It's rather a strange feeling, to be standing next to your trainer who's giggling for no reason at all. I've a vague urge to shake her, but I suppress it.

She quietens. Her eyes are still closed. Despite everything, I yawn. I'm not used to waking up so early. It is only after a moment that she actually says something.

"You didn't do _too_ badly…" she murmurs, "I didn't expect you to fight back, anyway."

The silence continues. I want to ask what happens next; what she brought me up here for: as a matter of fact, I'd like to know where we are. But she doesn't look to be in any way responsive: it's as much as I can do to sit down beside her and listen to her breathing.

It is only as the first ray of sunlight finally shines from over the mountaintop that she opens her eyes again. And can you blame me for being asleep when that happens?

Evidently, _she_ can.

**A/N: Second chapter, finally finished! If anyone's hoping for action and stuff, I'm afraid that's still not happening in this chapter… Sorry about that. But there's quite a bit I'd like to get through first… although, in actual fact, I'm not entirely sure that's right, since I'm making it up as I go along. ****I just like the strange relationship between the two characters at this point. But this'll be related to what happens next, I promise! Whatever it is, I **_**do**_** hope you'll leave a review, if only so I don't get bored with my empty mailbox and everything. Yeah… so… bye!**


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